Poetry of Byron |
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Page xiv
... speaking of that exquisite master of language , the Italian poet Leopardi , remarks how often we see the alliance , singular though it may at first sight appear , of the poetical genius with the genius for scholar- ship and philology ...
... speaking of that exquisite master of language , the Italian poet Leopardi , remarks how often we see the alliance , singular though it may at first sight appear , of the poetical genius with the genius for scholar- ship and philology ...
Page xvii
... speaking of Byron at that moment was not and could not be quite the same cool critic as Goethe speaking of Dante , or Molière , or Milton . This , I say , we ought to remember in reading Goethe's judgments on Byron and his poetry ...
... speaking of Byron at that moment was not and could not be quite the same cool critic as Goethe speaking of Dante , or Molière , or Milton . This , I say , we ought to remember in reading Goethe's judgments on Byron and his poetry ...
Page xxix
... speak for himself . Surely the critic who does most for his author is the critic who gains readers for his author himself , not for any lucubrations on his author ; -gains more readers for him , and enables those readers to read him ...
... speak for himself . Surely the critic who does most for his author is the critic who gains readers for his author himself , not for any lucubrations on his author ; -gains more readers for him , and enables those readers to read him ...
Page 6
... Speak - speak of any thing but love . ' Twere long to tell , and vain to hear , The tale of one who scorns a tear ; And there is little in that tale Which better bosoms would bewail . But mine has suffer'd more than well " Twould suit ...
... Speak - speak of any thing but love . ' Twere long to tell , and vain to hear , The tale of one who scorns a tear ; And there is little in that tale Which better bosoms would bewail . But mine has suffer'd more than well " Twould suit ...
Page 14
... encircled waist ; By all the token - flowers that tell What words can never speak so well ; By love's alternate joy and woe , Ζώη μοῦ , σάς ἀγαπῶ . Maid of Athens ! I am gone ; Think of 14 POETRY OF BYRON . "Maid of Athens "
... encircled waist ; By all the token - flowers that tell What words can never speak so well ; By love's alternate joy and woe , Ζώη μοῦ , σάς ἀγαπῶ . Maid of Athens ! I am gone ; Think of 14 POETRY OF BYRON . "Maid of Athens "
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Common terms and phrases
Adah Arqua art thou ASTARTE bear beautiful behold beneath blood blue breast breath brow Byron Cain Canto charm cheek CHILDE HAROLD clime clouds cold Crown 8vo dare dark dead death deep DON JUAN dost dread dream dwell earth eyes fcap fear feel foam gaze gentle Giaour glory Goethe grave hand hath heart heaven heaving hour immortal isle Leopardi light limbs live lone look look'd Lucifer MANFRED MATTHEW ARNOLD mortal mountains ne'er never night o'er PARISINA pass'd Philistinism Poems poet poetic poetry roll'd rose round Samian wine seem'd seen shore SIEGE OF CORINTH sigh slave smile soul spirit Stanzas star steed stood Stopford Brooke sweet tears thee thine things thou art thou hast thought throne tomb turn'd twas Twere Venice voice waters wave weep wild wind Wordsworth youth
Popular passages
Page 95 - The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! Oh night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud...
Page 65 - The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set.
Page 50 - THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Page 44 - Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin — his control Stops with the shore ; upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined and unknown.
Page 93 - And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave, — alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass...
Page xxviii - Were with his heart, and that was far away ; He recked not of the life he lost, nor prize ; But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother, — he, their sire, Butchered to make a Roman holiday.
Page 94 - Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake, With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction : once I loved Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved.
Page 104 - Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar Comes down upon the waters, all its hues, From the rich sunset to the rising star, Their magical variety diffuse ; And now they change ; a paler shadow strews Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till — 'tis gone — and all is gray.
Page xxiv - What, in ill thoughts again ? Men must endure Their going hence, even as their coming hither : Ripeness is all : Come on.
Page 253 - A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping In sight, then lost amidst the forestry Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy; A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown On a fool's head - and there is London Town!